Shakin’ Steven’s how I’m known,
Welsh my plot, well hid in hills,
slowly sliding gradients,
sloping like a writing desk,
pretending antique by design,
visible – who said PD?
Standing stock still when I freeze,
kids taunt me as garden gnome,
though I walk rarely on the lawn –
stumble, roll like tumbleweed.
I do kick off, lying down –
insomnia pays off late.
That I prance, an irony,
scene on Zoom, my ballet screen,
arabesque and plié stance,
solo in my living room.
Dance for Parkinson’s my stake;
gold mine claim where not alone.
Used by permission of the author.